


Terpsichorean

by Sheniru



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Hannibal actually being Wills paddle, Hannibal is hopelessly romantic, Hannibal is in love, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Seriously Hannibal would trive in a zombie apocalypse, Slice of Life, Zombie Apocalypse, he would also probably hate it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:41:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheniru/pseuds/Sheniru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Post - The Wrath of the Lamb + Zombie Apocalypse AU] Two years in the midst of a massive zombie outbreaks, Hannibal and Will, working their best to survive while wandering the deserted world, need to replenish their fuel supplies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terpsichorean

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely inspired by "The Zombie Survival Guide" and "World War Z (the book)" by Max Brooks. The story starts in the midst of an hypothetical zombie outbreaks which happened a little bit after TWOTL.

The wreckage of many cars was still clogging the road; the freeway stretched on and on, a long line of packed vehicles ever unmoving. _An endless, deserted parking lot, hot and dry, and festered with flies_ , Will quickly noted as they disembarked their own broken-down Toyota. He pulled the strap of an empty, worn-out cotton bag closer to him. 

"A lamenting and rather predictable consequence of the first few months of the Great Panic.” Hannibal spoke academically, as he emerged from the back of the car with an empty gas canister under each arm, and a small, cheeky smile. “Irrational, panic-induced convergence into a single place is a typical and rather unfortunate habit humanity has yet to get rid of. Churches, for example. Not well defended, filled with praying, terrified families, they were, of course, the first target of hungry, rotting corpses.” He gave one overall look at their surroundings and tilted his head in contemplation. “This place is not dissimilar.”

Will, although nervous, flashed him lovely eyes.

“Human snacks packaged in tin cans, ready to be pried open.” The man gave a short nod to the car closest to them, its side window smashed, with specks of dry blood visible from remaining glass shards sticking out like stalagmite. It was empty, save for some remnant of the previous occupant’s useless belongings; a testament to a trite misfortune. 

He frowned. “…People trying to get out?” 

Will took a few steps toward the blue sedan, paused. His gaze brushed over the scratched fabric of the bench seats and the torn seat belt, before he offered an anxious, understanding smile. “Yes. They were escaping what was _inside_ the car.” 

He played the scene now more clearly in his mind. A family, an older one. A wounded brother, mother, grandfather tucked on the back seat, wrapped in loving arms amidst the chaos and panic. People banging on the windows, trying to get in, trying to be saved or to feast on their flesh, and suddenly, the enemy is by your side, wearing someone else’s face. Will slowly let the tip of his fingers run amongst the glass shards still attached to the gaping hole, lost in emotions that were not his own, until Hannibal gently laid one hand on his shoulder, bringing him back, closer to him. 

"We must be careful when venturing such a desolated place. Many of the creatures turned while still locked inside their vehicles, sometimes left behind by panicked family members, if they were fortunate. Here, the dead ran amok between the rows of stopped cars, and gnawed at what they could find, rubbing mangled gums against windshields, grabbing in through any cracks while they terrorized trapped occupants. The freeway, once seen as their only hope of escape, has becomes a charnel ground.” 

Will exhaled, leaning in the touch, guided by Hannibal’s appeasing voice. "Many will still be there, still be a threat, we will need to be careful. Some, legs broken, might have crawled underneath car bumpers, others could be reaching you through broken windows. Be wary of your surroundings." 

Blue eyes followed his gaze; he nodded in understanding, tightening his hold on the empty bag he was carrying. They were scavenging for gas mostly, but they were more than ready to grab anything else of purpose. These places had been looted before but not by many and less and less as you ventured at its belly. Some cars were still sporting trunks filled with food and supplies, but some others only carried moans and rotting flesh. “People didn’t know how the infection spread in the first few months of the outbreak, and wouldn’t part with their afflicted loved ones, carrying them in some regrettable ways.” Hannibal pointed to a small compact car where something was furiously banging from inside the boot.

“…Until they get better.” Will’s voice was wistful.

Hannibal watched Will squeeze his slender body between the metallic carcass of two SUVs, one of whom had a door wide open and unhinged. His shirt was still white, sort-of, kissing the line of his waist and tucked neatly in torn pants, stained near his shoulder by someone else’s blood. His hair needed to be trimmed again and his face was scruffy and unkept. His arms, bare to the elbow where the fabric of his sleeve was bundled up, counted many healing scars by then, and his hands, agitated, were seeking support on every surface he found to be safe. Will was too thin, or his clothes had grown too large for him. 

The sun was high in the sky; rarely did they venture in such an open space or enjoy the warmth of a fine day anymore. Quiet danger still lurked about, but no swarms of ghouls were at their trails, no cacophony of cauchemardesque cries awakened their fears. They were rats in the sewers, sole survivors of a shipwreck exploring a boat graveyard, wanderers in the aftermath of disaster. Their position wasn’t ideal, they were stuck on both sides, and obstacles made it hard to move swiftly, but in the worst of cases, they could always climb on top of the cars. It looked manageable enough.

Hannibal followed his lover closely, keeping a vigilant look at the rows of already gutted vehicles looted of their useful supplies. They were now littered with emptied bottles of pills, scraps of clothes, crumbled soda cans, and here, there, a folded, yellowed letter in the drink compartment, a picture of a child stuck in crevices of the rearview mirror, some icons of saints and a chapelet forgotten in the footwell. Children’s toys, dolls with smiling faces, discarded coats torn on the sleeve, a lone shoe. 

Will was trembling. Looking was as hard as not looking and he was assailed by all the stories each vehicle chronicled around him holding the precision and the clarity of when it happened. Once, he had to pause, his forehead pressed onto the burning hood of an old white car, one you would see a teenager purchase as a bargained, trying to empty his head out. Later, he jumped in fright, startled, while passing another, larger sedan. There was an aggressive rattling at the window of the passenger’s seat. 

Someone, or more accurately something was struggling like a starved beast, trying to break free of its confinements. It was impossible to see inside, the glass was darkly shaded and dirty, but you could slightly guessed the frantic hand with missing two fingers, tapping at it. It was not strong enough to even scratch its surface. Will remained frozen, nevertheless. 

Hannibal grabbed his shoulder again, very delicately, and pulled the younger man out of its trance. "It won't be able to break the glass. It's probably very damaged by this point." 

Will nodded, fear slowly receding, yet he remained seized by the moment. He imagined a broken head with rotten eyes, part of a torso with only one arm attached, a hand clawing desperately at him through a single ray of light while gurgling moans erupted from a ripped throat.

"This place is entangled in fantasy." Will murmured, detached, as they walked further in. Hannibal did not let go of his arm this time, but followed his lead still. The man was attentive to the levelling emotions that clustered on Will’s brows, mouthful of air that seemed thick enough to lump down at the bottom of his throat, the tremors that shook his body whenever a moan belched out from the left, or a banging strummed from the right. Each rusting wreckage was a crime scene Will was vulnerable to, and Hannibal was there for him. 

The further they went on, the less pillaged they found the cars. Some still had roamers stuck within their depth, some had grabbers, hands pulling at their clothes if they walked too close. One got to Will at one point, a tiny arm bursting out of a cracked door, but Hannibal, quicker and less distracted, broke its bones with one acute strike of his hunting gun. 

Will finally tapped at the hood of a large green van, one he was certain still contained fuel. Hannibal dropped the empty red canisters in the dust, followed next by a short plastic tubing. The younger man was down on his knees, uncapping the gas tank in silence, as he had often done so; they sort of took turns, and this one was definitively his.

There was an abnormal space around this vehicle, a strange clearing in a forest of metallic corpses, as if each remaining cars had been plucked out like lilies, and thrown around carelessly. It wasn’t such a mystery, a few of them had crashed into each others, and one had tried to dodge collision only to slam into some on the adjacent side. Two had burned to a crisp. Hannibal watched Will worked in the singular wide space, enveloped by a gentle breeze’s weak attempt to cleanse the air from the smell of rotting flesh. Soon Will was coughing and spitting; he was handed a water bottle almost immediately. He fixed the other end of the tubing into the canister, grimaced, and then took another swoop of their rationed water.

“It feel almost theatrical, this place.” Hannibal murmured, his back now turned as he contemplate his surroundings. "A stage. The silence that precedes dinner, when food is served, ready to be consumed, and the host raises his glass and prepares for a speech.”  
Will turned his head, absent, as if he was searching more for words than their meaning. Hannibal walked to him, crouched by his side, in the grime and the dust, and let his hand caress the younger man’s hair, then his chin; fingers gently gripped the back of his neck and tilted his head so that their eyes met. All the hues of the blue sky were reflected upon them, cloud tumbling down like feathers. Two golden stars lost in the blues of daylight. 

Wordlessly captivated, Hannibal helped him to his feet, letting his fingers wander about the frail man’s collarbone, and slowly down the side of his abdomen. Gently, he leaned forward and pulled them back in a circular motion, manoeuvring them to the middle of the road. They were surrounded by ghostly spectators, faces only Will could see behind the wheel, or marooned on the backseat, clapping hands in excitement. Hannibal's gaze was so profoundly loving it was peeling his skin off his body, raw. 

Will knew instinctively how to follow his steps on the dance floor. He didn't know the moves but he was attuned to the others’ body, to the muscles flexing, to the limbs jolting against one another, like clockwork. His eyes were captivated, his body so light he thought, if he was to let go, he would soar through the sky and drift away. Hannibal was a stroke of ink on canvas, his body graceful and controlled like that of a performer. 

The decor was forgotten, and they were waltzing amongst the waves of a dead ocean, carried by the many murmurs of envy from every corner of the gallery. They danced around as if they were the only remaining humans on the empty ballroom floor, and perhaps they were. Hannibal slid his hand along the small of Will's back, before slowly nudging it in a comfortable place to hold him closer. Will smiled and rolled his head on the side, baring his neck, intoxicated and seduced; he pulled them closer as the steps naturally slowed down, commuting itself into something less demonstrative and more intimate. He could still smell the scent of gasoline coming through Will’s shallow breath. 

Hannibal let his cheek rest against the stained portion of Will’s shirt, whispering silent prayers for time to stay still, so they could claim this empty kingdom of metal and rust to themselves. He nuzzled into the tender flesh of his collarbone, taking in the man’s smell before he slid further against Will's, nudging for some sort of balance along the hollow of his neck. His head was filled to brim with symphonies, odes to the man he was holding dear against his heart, composition he could sing without a sound, without a single musical stave, for they shared the room of this moment in their conjoined palace. 

Will closed his eyes, breathing with difficulty through the burning air, before his peaceful face broke down into a grin. 

"What is this even supposed to be.” He said, their bodies together in a slow dance. “How do you struck such inspiration in the most absurd of places. Dancing… _really?_ “ He pulled the others’ head out of the comfort it had found and rolled their forehead against one another, so they could watch each other in the eyes. Now, they were both grinning. "You always find poetry in the most inane settings." 

“Only you can inspire beauty in such a vile place.” Hannibal offered. Will did not hold the stare for long, blushing.  
Hannibal tipped his head a little bit, kissed the side of his head with too wide smile. “When one’s inspiration strikes, one should always find the time to exert creation. It keeps the mind healthy, protect it from the sharp fangs of the dullness of the world.” 

The younger man chuckled softly, long lashes batting dust from his eyes. “The world had become dull indeed…”


End file.
